


Tried To Keep My Hands On the Table

by orphan_account



Category: Jonas Brothers
Genre: AU, M/M, unrelated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick Jonas, Shortstop for the Dallas Rangers, is benched for the season to recover from a bum knee.  Joe Miller, physical therapist extraordinaire, has to deal with him. (Joe/Nick unrelated)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tried To Keep My Hands On the Table

**Author's Note:**

> This is all because of commentfic prompts on prez_porn; I wanted Nick the baseball star and Joe his physical therapist, and since nobody pounced on it, I wrote it myself. It's commentfic, essentially, so don't expect the great American novel from this thing. Thanks to inthenameofjuc for the beta and awesome cheerleading. And yes, I totally used an Olivia Newton-John song for the title. Don't judge.

Nick didn't care if he came highly recommended. He was twenty-five minutes late.

He was sitting gingerly in his (ergonomic) chair, fingers digging imprints into the (cushioned) arms, and the clock on the wall kept ticking minutes by like a taunt. Five was fine, inconvenient but expected in any waiting room, fifteen was worth a thought of bothering the receptionist, and at twenty he actually did.

"Joe will be out as soon as he's available, Mr Jonas." She managed a sympathetic expression, but then she went back to her poorly concealed Sudoku puzzle before he'd even stepped away from the desk.

The limp back to his chair was another stroke to the flames of his irritation, but he sat back down and kept waiting. The guy'd better have the hands of a _God_ , or Nick was filing some sort of complaint. If his knee was a little less jacked, he would have considered storming out to his car and finding someone else, but limping wasn't conducive to a dramatic exit, and he really didn't want to have to go through this all over again.

Finally, thirty minutes after his five-thirty appointment, Joe Miller appeared. His previous -- client, or whatever -- came out first, sweating in a pair of track pants and a BUM shirt and leaning heavily on a crutch, while Joe stood there by the front desk and talked to him. He wrapped it up fairly quickly, and he walked over to Nick with his eyebrows raised cheerfully above his glasses.

"Hello, Mr Jonas," he said, his smile a slash of pristine white in his tan face. "I'm incredibly sorry about the wait. We've been running behind all day."

"Have you," Nick said sourly, but Joe didn't notice or care about the tone; if anything, he smiled wider.

"How about you come back with me? Do you need any--"

Nick was already pushing himself up from the chair and not in the mood to be hand-held. "I've got it."

Joe's hands fluttered at his sides like he wanted to reach out and grab Nick anyway, but he backed up and waited. "It's this way," he said, keeping pace with Nick and eying his walk with the same contemplative look he'd gotten from his coach and the E.R. doctor.

It was pretty barren inside of Joe's office; mostly open floor with mats and rails, more equipment up against the walls, and a few tables. He had a desk, but it didn't look like he used it much; either that or he was the tidiest person on the planet.

"Okay, why don't you have a seat over there," Joe said, gesturing to a large maroon leather couch he had in a corner facing the desk.

Nick sat. The cushions deflated when he did, which made him feel like he was shrinking.

Joe grabbed a clipboard off of his desk and a pen from the front pocket of his red polo shirt, whistling as he moved around the office. He rolled the chair from his desk over in front of Nick and sat down. There was only a few feet between them, and Joe's whistling died down as he settled, smoothing a hand over the face of the clipboard and clicking his pen.

He'd been whistling Hey Jude.

"Before we start, would you like something to drink? I know it's pretty hot out. We've got water and Gatorade, some tea--"

"I'm fine."

"Okay," Joe said. His left knee started jiggling. Nick watched it, vaguely wishing he could do the same thing without shooting, excruciating pain. "First off, my name is Joe Miller." He gave a weird little wave, and Nick blinked at him. "I'm going to go over some history with you, and then we're going to figure out a treatment plan to get you back on your feet, okay? And you can tell me if you have any questions, or if you need to use the bathroom, or if you end up wanting some water or something after all." He hummed Hey Jude again, ducking his head down to scribble something on the clipboard.

Hands of a _God_ or Nick was blacklisting this dude.

\--

Half an hour later and Nick was unsteadily pushing himself forward on crutches, Joe's hand resting gently at the small of his back. Normally he'd be annoyed, but the first time he'd tried to take a step, the crutches had started to slip out from under him and if Joe hadn't been there with his not unimpressive upper body strength, Nick would probably be on the floor.

"You don't have to go so fast," Joe said. "It's not a race."

"Gee," Nick said through gritted teeth, already feeling an ache in his arms that he _knew_ would probably dog him for weeks, "thanks." His body wanted to lean onto the crutches, but Joe started tutting if Nick let them press up against his armpits. He kept saying _hands!_ like it was some sort of magic word. "I had no idea."

"No, you're right. There's totally going to be a race. I'm just waiting for the guy in a wheelchair to show up and then you're off."

The hand on Nick's back was decidedly less gentle. Nick grunted and went to make another circuit of the room.

\--

He'd already examined Nick's knee, but he did it again when Nick was done learning how to use the crutches. This time Nick was sitting on an exam table, Joe bent over him, delicately pressing his fingers to the soft skin at the crook of Nick's knee, and Nick had to fight jerking back from the too-light sensation.

His knee started to mottle a few days earlier, a strange in-between color that looked worse than the bruises Nick got almost every week. It was bad. Most of his injuries went away with some rest and some ice, but this was something else. Everyone said he was lucky, their lucky penny. It pissed him off because all he did was work hard, but it was slowly occurring to him that maybe he'd been a cat with nine lives, and now his number was up.

Joe let go of his knee, straightening up and chewing on his lower lip. "It's not too bad. It's Grade Three, but I think if you keep up with your exercises and make sure to _rest it_ ," he looked at Nick meaningfully, "you should be out of the brace within the next two months."

Two months meant the rest of the season, at least. Even if he got it off before the end, that didn't mean rehab was up. Nick fought very hard to keep an expression off of his face, but his throat clicked with the force of his swallow, and Joe politely glanced away for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said, when he looked back, his full mouth turning down at the corners. "I know it sucks to be benched." Nick only nodded, any and all words useless in the face of losing what should have been one of the best seasons of his career. And it was a fucking knee injury; how many baseball players were benched because of their _knees_? "If you do everything right, next season no one'll be able to tell you put your knee out."

"Right," Nick said, thick-throated. "Next season."

The rest was a blur, but he snapped halfway back to alertness when he had to leave, Joe helping him down from the exam table, hand warm around Nick's bicep.

\--

"What did you _do_ to yourself?" Joe sounded amused somewhere under all of the annoyance. Nick squinched his eyes shut and rolled his shoulders, trying to shake out some of the pain. "No, oh my God, stop moving around."

Nick did. Joe went huffing around the room for whatever it was he needed, leaving Nick to stare at the wall and feel like an idiot. He hadn't _meant_ to hurt himself. He was actually working very hard to do the exact opposite.

"Tell me again what happened," Joe said, suddenly behind him. He didn't wear cologne. There was a giant sign out by the front desk that said PLEASE NO PERFUMES, MANY PEOPLE HAVE ALLERGIES, and it was surprising how much ninjaing someone could get away with when they weren't surrounded by a lingering cloud of scent. Joe sometimes leaned in close enough for Nick to smell his shampoo, his deodorant; he was vaguely spicy.

"I already told you," Nick said, grumpy and sore. It hurt to be sitting. It hurt to stand. It mostly hurt to lie down. Basically all of him hurt, and the Tylenol 3 and lying in bed and those painstaking exercises weren't helping.

"Yeah, but I want to laugh at you while you tell me this time." Joe came around to stand in front of him looking thoroughly exasperated, tsking at him. "Come on, you're going to lie down."

"What for?" Nick asked, but he was already taking Joe's proffered hand.

"No," Joe said, when Nick started trying to lie back on the table. "Not here." He pointed to the massage table, which to Nick's bum knee and spasming back seemed like it was about five miles away.

He didn't think about how long it took to Joe to half-drag him over to it, how many times he hissed and bit off saying things Joe definitely wasn't getting paid to hear. By the time he was lying face-down on the thing, knee carefully arranged, sweat had broken out on his forehead and the back of his neck.

Oh, and he'd had to take his shirt off before the undignified hopping/dragging session, Joe's arm slung around his waist because using the crutches was too unbearably painful to be an option. It was not Nick's day.

"So you fell in the shower," Joe said, and it was even more unnerving now that Nick couldn't really twist his head around to see where he was. He thought he saw Joe's shadow on the floor. "Were you doing something in particular when you fell? Like lunges?"

"I was rinsing shampoo out of my hair," Nick said, but Joe ignored him.

"Were you dancing? One time I nearly fell because I'd brought my brother's boombox in there with me, and let me tell you, I never did that again."

Nick's skin pulled taut against the cushion when he smiled. It was a small favor that Joe couldn't see him. "It was just shampoo. I didn't do anything out of the ordinary."

"Yeah," Joe said, "I don't believe you."

"What?" Nick demanded. He sorely regretted tensing up when his back decided to screw itself into even tighter knots. "Why would I --?"

"You're going stir-crazy, for one, and you think that taking showers is no big deal. It's not like walking, or driving a car, right? You just have to stand there and wash your hair." This time he definitely saw Joe's shadow hovering over him. "You don't like taking it easy. You have to be careful, Nick. You'll get sloppy, and next time it'll be worse."

Nick had nothing to say to that. It was pretty much true. He'd been putting too much weight on his leg.

Falling in the shower wasn't the most humiliating experience of his life, but it was up there, and it was ranked fairly high on the list of painful experiences too. He had no idea how he'd dragged himself out of the stall, let alone gotten dressed and driven himself all the way to Joe's office. His back was killing him, but under that, he could feel his knee starting a deep throb in time with his heartbeat that hadn't been there before.

Above him, Joe sighed. "Let me know if my hands are too cold. This is going to hurt, but if you need a break, just tell me."

\--

Hands of a God.

\--

Three weeks in, and Nick was starting to realize that physical therapy was the highlight of his life.

His mom called him every day, and a few of the guys stopped by with beer (for them) and sympathy, but Nick's life was generally comprised of sitting around feeling sorry for himself and paying a nice lady named Suzanna to do everything around the house and in the yard that he couldn't. He tipped her generously, because she had to clean around him simmering in frustrated silence the entire time and pretend like it wasn't happening. The rest of his time was swallowed up by daytime TV and his laptop. There was absolutely nothing good on daytime TV, and watching ESPN was like a form of torture, so he didn't do it.

But there was the two days a week he got to haul his sorry ass into a car and have a disturbingly cheerful guy babble at him for an hour, methodically putting Nick's body back together the way it was supposed to be. It was slow and agonizing, but every time he left Nick felt a bit better, even if it was mentally.

Joe was sort of poking at Nick's leg in the flesh just above the knee. "How many times a day are you doing the stretches?"

Nick tilted his head, staring down at his bare toes and Joe's forearms as he worked. "Ten?"

Joe stopped. "Repetitions?"

Nick shook his head. "No. Yes. I do ten reps of the stretches ten times a day."

Joe's face went blank. It was strange to see his face so still, usually even his _eyebrows_ were animated. "You... What about the lifts?"

"Same."

Joe's face went from blank to puzzled to dismayed almost in slow-motion. Nick leaned forward, concerned. "So you're doing _all_ of the exercises ten times a day? The ones for your back, too?" At Nick's nod, he looked away, pressing his lips together. "Did you read the pamphlets I gave you?"

"I read them like four times," Nick said defensively. "What, am I doing something wrong?"

Joe was shaking his head, and he swept both of his palms up to cover his face, running them through his hair. "I'm pretty sure nowhere in the pamphlets said to spend half of your day on leg stretches, Nick."

Nick flushed, hating the tone Joe was using, the wry tilt to his lips. "I'm not spending _half_ of my day on them."

"No," Joe said, standing up straight. He was still shaking his head, and Nick badly wished he would stop. "Just _hours_. You know they don't give you any medals for this stuff, right?"

That stupid blush he got when he was upset was all over his face. He could feel it burning; even his ears were hot. Joe kept standing there looking tired and amused, at Nick's expense, and Nick was just sitting there. He couldn't even get up and leave without some sort of assistance. "Screw you," he snarled, trying to get up and not caring if he didn't _distribute his weight correctly_.

Joe's face fell, and he reached out to help Nick, shrinking back at the angry shove he got in return. "Nick, that's not what I -- slow down a second."

He was mostly standing, gripping the side of the table for balance. His crutches were propped up against the wall across from him, and he steeled himself before going for them, limping so hard it felt like his whole leg was made of lead. He stopped and wobbled his way into his flip-flops.

" _Nick_."

"Don't touch me," Nick said, fumbling with the crutches, knocking one against the wall when he grabbed for it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a jerk about it, you're just so -- _Fuck_ , will you stop for a second and _listen to me_?"

Joe was standing in front of him blocking the door, and unless God suddenly decided to lend Nick the ability to outmaneuver someone with two working legs, there was no way he was getting out. He clenched his jaw and looked at the floor, taking slow breaths.

"You're going to hurt yourself. That's what I'm saying, you're too intense about everything and you're going to hurt yourself." Joe sounded pained, imploring. "You didn't even think it was weird to push yourself that hard. Nick."

Joe's hand came down hesitantly on Nick's shoulder. He felt the urge to shrug it off, but it was just too much to bother. The crutches under him, the ache in his shoulder and back that had only just started to heal.

"I'm sorry," Joe said softly, letting his hand fall away.

Nick let himself stare at the floor a minute longer, mouth screwed up so tight he could feel his teeth pressing against it. "How many times do I do the reps?"

"Right now, once a day tops. Don't push yourself." He heard Joe draw in a breath. "When you go home, ice it, okay? Keep off of it for a little while too." He was quiet, halting, like Nick was going to bolt at any given word. "It isn't like training. Your knee can't take that sort of stress every day."

Nick nodded again, jerky, and Joe stepped aside. He could feel Joe's eyes on him all the way to the waiting room.

He had the entire ride back to his house to feel like a gigantic idiot.

\--

Nick couldn't tell at first glance whether or not Joe was surprised to see him back again. When he spotted Nick seated in the waiting room, he smiled, but he kept quiet when they walked back to the office, Nick slow as molasses being careful on his crutches.

It was unnerving to see Joe so subdued. Typically by the time he was in the office with his brace off, Joe was telling him about the carb-free curry recipe he'd found the night before, the newest project in his photography class, or complaining about how crappy his cell phone service was. This time it was just the two of them sitting there, Joe asking professional questions and Nick answering them succinctly.

"I've been doing the reps like you said," Nick tried, not braving a look at Joe's face while he spoke. "My knee isn't as stiff."

"Good," Joe said, and he sounded a little off. Nick was too curious not to glance up, and they both caught each other's eyes at the same time. "That's... good. Progress."

It wasn't as awkward after that, but Joe was still quiet and Nick was too unsure of himself to try and snap Joe out of it.

"You, um, let's get you on the table," Joe said, once he was done with the various prodding, poking and turning Nick was all too familiar with. Nick slipped off his shirt and handed it to Joe, same as the last time, but Joe looked down at it like he didn't know what it was for a second. "Thanks." He hung it on one of the hooks mounted on the wall.

Nick didn't need much help getting onto the table anymore; he kept it slow and cautious, keeping his leg out of the way as best as he could.

Usually by the time Joe's bare hands were on his skin, Joe had him sufficiently distracted with a stream of conversation. The sensation of someone's hands on him, a little sticky with a small amount of oil, or lotion, whatever it was Joe used, it was something entirely different in utter silence. He tensed.

"Does it hurt here?" Joe asked, pushing at the meat of Nick's shoulder assessingly.

"No."

"Tell me if I run into a spot that does."

Joe fingers were strong and blunt, always moving over him without flinching or hesitation. If he ran into something that hurt, he slowed down and worked at it, and on the rare occasion Nick made a noise, he stopped entirely to check on him before continuing. Nick left every appointment feeling worked over and loose, the nag of his back pain relegated to background noise. But this time Joe was slipping his fingers across Nick's skin way too lightly, stalling before making a half-hearted grab at a place he usually dug in and worked on. It made Nick's back too sensitive, skin jumping at every touch.

"Joe," he said, and Joe stilled and made a questioning noise. "I'm not going to bite your head off again. You can do... whatever." He was afraid it was the wrong thing to say since he couldn't see Joe's face, but it was the best he could come up with.

"Whatever, huh?" Joe said, a sliver of playfulness back in his voice. "That was really specific."

Nick groaned. "Shut up. You know what I mean."

"Yeah." Joe sounded thoughtful, and a second later there were hands on his skin again, sure and steady this time.

Nick closed his eyes, relaxing into it on an exhale.

The end of the massage meant the end of the appointment, minus any last instructions Joe had, but when Nick went for his shirt, Joe cleared his throat.

"I need to take a look at your leg again," Joe said, and Nick raised his eyebrows expectantly. "You'll need to wear a gown for it." Nick put the shirt back on the hook, confused, his eyebrows still raised. "Sorry. I'll grab you one."

It was the same kind of gown worn at the doctor's office, ugly and way too big. Joe put it on the table and headed for the door. "You can keep your underwear on." His hand turned the doorknob, but he glanced back at Nick before leaving. "You need any help?"

"Nope," Nick said, already going for the buttons on his shorts. He was getting tired of wearing them so much, but they were the easiest things to get in and out of. When he heard the door close behind Joe, he pushed them down, lifting his bad leg out first, kicking them to the side. He'd deal with bending over to get them later.

Nick was unlucky enough to see his reflection in the _one_ mirror Joe had mounted on his wall, and the gown was as unflattering as he'd thought. He looked like a little kid in a potato sack. If he put the brace back on, it'd make an especially surreal accessory.

Joe knocked. "I'm good," Nick answered, easing his way up onto the table.

Joe smiled brightly at him, and the return of that look made Nick feel better in a way the massage hadn't touched. He didn't know what to do with someone disliking him, for whatever reason; it probably happened, but Nick never spent enough time with any one person to notice it when it did.

"How do you want me?" Nick asked, grinning a little.

"Like that is fine. I'm just checking the muscles around your knee to make sure they're not weakened or anything."

He pulled his chair over to the table, and Nick felt like he was supposed to lift the hem of his gown himself, or something, because it seemed strange to make Joe do it. " _Anything_ like strained from doing too many reps?" he asked idly, and the firm hand that was encircling his calf went lax.

Joe looked up at him, mouth quirked in a smile. His glasses were sliding down his nose and he pushed them up with his wrist. "Something like that."

He started at Nick's ankle, rotating it, and Nick counted himself lucky that it didn't tickle. He squeezed up the calf, hmming in his way when he encountered something he wasn't sure of. Nick watched him work, the broad sweep of his thumbs against skin, pushing against muscle. Joe's hands weren't that big, but it seemed like they made Nick's leg look smaller and paler in contrast.

Up by Nick's knee, he was gentle. He pressed his index finger to the left of the cap and moved on.

That was when it got weird.

Joe seemed fine; he was still looking at Nick with the same amount of scrutiny as before, mouth slightly pursed, eyebrows drawn closer together. But Nick was acutely aware that he was watching someone's hands slide up his leg to his thigh, creep up the hem of his clothes. It was a stupid gown, not exactly the same as someone dipping their hands into his jeans, but it was -- weird.

Aside from P.T., Nick's history with massages was limited; his first was from a girlfriend in highschool, and that was about the extent of their experience with each other. Maybe it was sense-memory; after all, he'd gotten his first handjob on Samantha's bed while her parents were away and she said she wanted to give him a massage after practice.

Nick tilted his head up and tried to focus on the ceiling. It was too much to watch Joe do it and feel it at the same time. It seemed like his fingers just kept getting higher and higher, steadily squeezing him. He was gentler there then he was when he worked on Nick's back.

He wasn't sure at what point his day had turned from dreading the potential dislike of his physical therapist to dreading an inopportune hard-on. Joe's fingers went even higher, tips ghosting across soft skin; Nick squirmed.

"I'm almost done," Joe said. "Sorry if I'm tickling you."

"It's fine," Nick said, wincing at how high his voice sounded.

It was fine. Joe did this all the time. He was used to it. People got hard-ons all the time during massages. It was pretty incredible Nick hadn't gotten one before, come to think of it. It was possible Joe hadn't even _noticed_.

No, he'd noticed the fact that Nick's dick was hard, given that he was practically _eye level_ with it. Nick closed his eyes and prayed, only he didn't want to call it that, because prayer was supposed to be reserved for something that didn't involve embarrassing erections. Big stuff. Hope my family is in good health stuff.

"Sorry," he muttered miserably, because he couldn't stand it being _there_ so blatantly and having this knowing silence surrounding them anymore.

"It's fine, Nick."

It took everything in him not to argue the point. He _wanted_ it to be fine. He didn't want to make things even weirder. "Happens to everybody, right?" he asked, hoping for funny and only getting weak desperation.

"It's really common."

If Joe would just _move_ his hand, Nick could cover his lap and start in on the long process of forgetting this had ever happened. But he was still going. "How common? Like, every day?"

Joe paused. Nick heard him huff a laugh. "No. A few times a week, maybe?"

Nick thought about that, the fact that Joe put his hands on people to heal them every day and had to go through the same nonchalant dismissal every time. It was entirely possible some of them weren't even embarrassed by it like Nick was. "That's... that actually sucks. Your job is crappier than I thought."

Joe laughed outright that time. "I've got really good benefits." He must have been done, because he pushed his chair back from Nick and pointedly did not look below his waist.

Nick tried to come up with something remotely funny or interesting to say back, but all he could manage was "Yeah."

"Everything's fine, for now. It's healing. You have to promise me you won't go all crazy and start doing exercises fifteen billion times a day, but other than that you're good." Joe smiled. "And I think in about a month the brace can come off."

"Great," Nick said, still mentally wrestling with an erection that refused to die.

"I'll see you next week," Joe said, still smiling, though it seemed a little manic now. "Remember, cool it on the reps."

"Right," Nick said to an empty room, staring helplessly down at his lap.

\--

Nick had a really, really good day when he was able to ditch the crutches. For a while he thought about throwing them away for the symbolism, but he couldn't fit them in his trash can, and it would look pretty lame. Ultimately he decided to keep them in his garage just in case something happened; Joe expressed his approval by clapping him on the back.

"Look at you," he said, "full of good decisions."

He made Nick walk laps around his office, but he went with him, sometimes dropping back to check his gait from behind.

"I'm still a mess," Nick complained, but he caught his grin in the mirror when he passed it. He wanted to do something brainless -- run or do jumping jacks, giddy with the freedom of not having to push himself along with two uncomfortable sticks.

"Oh, whatever, you're fine. Another month and you're out of the brace." Joe turned his head slightly to smile at Nick. He looked genuinely happy. "Plus you get the added benefit of not having to see me twice a week."

Nick's leg locked underneath him. "Really?" Without training, without conditioning, without the games, and even with more mobility, Nick didn't have much to do. He didn't know how pathetic it made him, exactly, but therapy was still the best thing he had going for him.

"Once a week for the next month," Joe explained, dropping back again, and Nick stiffly tried not to favor his leg. Putting his foot flat hurt, sharp pain that shot up almost his entire leg, but it was manageable. "After that, we'll see."

"That's great."

Nick was in dire need of friends, he decided. People who would come over and play Monopoly with him while he kept his leg elevated. People who would do more than stop by with beer and the thin pretense of checking on him (and his plasma TV). He needed someone cheerful, who liked to do things, someone who didn't talk about Nick's stats like they were the only interesting thing about him.

"How's your back?" Joe asked.

"It's a little better since I stopped using the crutches."

Joe snorted. "Since this morning, you mean? Don't get too excited."

"It spasmed when I closed the door to my car," Nick admitted. "But it wasn't bad."

"Wasn't bad." They came to a stop near the massage table. Nick's stomach clenched. "Okay, Chief, hop up and I'll take a look."

He took his shirt off and handed it to Joe as usual. The temperature had dipped fairly low for a summer day, and Joe's air conditioning hadn't been adjusted, so it was slightly chilly inside. Nick resisted the urge to rub his arms.

Nick wasn't quite settled when Joe came over holding his bottle of massage oil. It was innocuous, just a white bottle, and the oil itself didn't smell strongly of anything in particular. Joe only used enough to run his hands over Nick's skin without chafing. He always warmed it before hand.

He started low at Nick's back, digging in above his hip where he tended to spasm. Nick had left out the fact that he nearly started crying in the car that morning from the pain, but with the way Joe was kneading at the spot, over and over again, from different angles, he had to have known it was bad. Pressure layered on top of what pain was already there, and Nick felt like every touch was trying to push the air from his lungs. Joe moved up, careful of his ticklish sides.

This part was usually the best. He'd cleared the truly painful spots, so the rest could be called relaxing if Joe's hands weren't so ruthless. Nick sighed and closed his eyes when Joe rubbed near the top of his spine.

"Better?" Joe asked.

"Much."

"How many spasms are you having per day?" Joe went on, his thumbs pushing long swipes up to the nape of Nick's neck. Nick liked that part; it was hard to focus.

"Um, a few? Not nearly as many as before."

"Hmm." He trailed back down Nick's body to his hip again, digging in even harder, and Nick hissed air through his teeth. "Need a break?"

"No, keep going."

"If I'm really hurting you, you can say. There's other things I can try."

He hit a spot that made Nick arch up off the table, a sound coming from him that he'd never admit was a squeak. "No, okay, I think you can go softer."

Joe ran his hands in a slow glide up from Nick's hips to his shoulders, and then he did it again even _slower_. Nick pushed his face into the cushion and prayed, but each time, Joe tortuously went slower. Nick could feel his fingers individually, the pads of them, the heels of his palms. It was so quiet he could hear Joe _breathing_.

He could feel his cock fattening up in his shorts, trapped uncomfortably near his thigh against the table. He willed it to go down, dwelling instead on the ever-present pain in his knee, the fact that he was going to humiliate himself all over again.

None of it worked.

"Almost done. You want me to help you up?" Joe asked, and Nick panicked a little.

"I'm good right here." He made absolutely no attempt to move and hoped it looked like he was zoned out because of the massage, and not because he was desperately trying to conceal a hard-on.

"I've got to look at your leg again," he said, and Nick wanted to slam his freaking head against the cushion. He groaned. "Nick?" Joe sounded alarmed.

"I really don't want to turn over right now," he mumbled.

Joe didn't reply immediately, which made Nick's gnawing embarrassment burn that much harder. "Um, Nick, it's -- it's not a problem. But if you want I can leave?"

Nick's appointment was over in less than ten minutes, and without a cold shower, Nick doubted he could get himself under control in time for Joe to finish. He wasn't going to screw Joe over by making him late for his next client, and he wasn't going to screw himself by not letting Joe check him over. Not if there was a chance he'd end up using the crutches again. "You don't have to leave. Just... Can you be quick?"

"Of course."

Nick rolled himself over and sat up, focusing on the wall, the clock, the way the air that felt cold again now that Joe wasn't warming the skin on his back.

"I can check it here," Joe said in a rush. "You don't have to change. It'll just take a second." Nick heard him bring the chair over, and then Joe was back already, sitting and wrapping his hand around Nick's ankle.

Nick kept it together until Joe got to his thigh, and then he exhaled shakily, forcing himself to stare at the wall so hard his eyes started to blur. He was fully hard, his underwear pulled taut over him; he hadn't looked down, but it had to have been the most obvious thing in the world to Joe, this disgusting boner tenting his clothes. And he had to lay hands on Nick and do his job anyway.

Evidently the gowns weren't just for show, because it was a tight fit for Joe to squirm his fingers up the leg of Nick's shorts. His skin was sensitive there, or maybe it was the action itself, because he broke out in goosebumps and shivered so hard it shook his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he said so low it was barely audible. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Joe pulled his hands away. "Nick, there's nothing wrong with you. I'm serious. Nick, look at me."

It was against every instinct to obey, but when he did Joe met him unflinchingly. He was flushed under his tan, mouth parted; his tongue swept out and nervously licked his lips. Nick didn't give a lot of thought to Joe's age, assumed they were within a few years of each other, but Joe looked so young in that moment it was surreal.

"I'm not freaked out. So you don't have to freak out."

"I've never --" Nick clenched his jaw, gesturing helplessly. It was easier to look down at his hands then to keep seeing Joe's earnestly forgiving expression. "This doesn't happen to me."

Not in the showers, where a lot of the guys were half-hard and completely unconcerned. Nick had dominion over his body, not the other way around. It'd been that way since Nick was a teenager, and it rarely betrayed him. If his sugars were off, he took care of them. If he was dragging ass in practice, he pushed himself to go harder.

But somehow he was sitting there, out of control, the lowest form of creep on earth, _wrong_ for getting turned on while some guy touched him. Joe was trying to do his job and wires inside Nick's brain had gotten twisted somewhere and turned it into something filthy.

"You've never gotten hard from someone touching you like this before? From a guy touching you, I mean?"

Nick's hands were shaking and Joe would have been blind to miss it. He shrugged. "No, it's never happened before."

"Has _anyone_ touched you like this?"

"Once."

Technically that wasn't true; technically it was twice.

Almost all of the guys on his team ended up getting therapeutic massage to work out the kinks, and when Nick threw his shoulder out during training his first year, he booked an appointment. After forty-five straight minutes of being tenderized like meat by a terrifying (and bearded) woman named Anna who was roughly the same shape and size of his coach, Nick vowed never to go back. And he never had.

But Samantha touching him, that beat the memory of Anna making him cry by about ten thousand miles. Nick had looked down the bed to watch her hand move over him, shiny with the oil she'd nicked from her parent's bathroom, how staggering and new it was. He'd felt so loose and sleepy from being rubbed all over like a cat, and when he came it was like she pulled it out of him.

Remembering that right then didn't help him.

Joe chewed on his lip. He wasn't normally full of so many nervous tics. "You can't be so hard on yourself all the time. It's normal to react when someone touches you, you know," he stuttered, searching for a word. "Pleasurably. Almost everyone would be affected by it."

"I don't think so."

Joe laughed, strangled. "Yeah, Nick, I know _I'd_ react if you put your hands all over me. It feels good, and it's not like you'd be -- it's not like I'm an ugly zombie or something totally gross. I hope."

"No," Nick huffed. "You're definitely not ugly."

He wanted to take it back the second he said it. He could feel himself pale, beyond blushing. It was the truth, but it was had no place in the conversation. Great. Nick somehow had the knack to make things _worse_ for himself. Joe probably thought he was some sort of lecherous freak.

"Uh, thanks." Joe offered an uncertain smile.

"Are you finished with my leg?" Nick asked, without much hope. Joe had been touching it for twenty seconds at most. Nick was so pathetic.

"I am if you want me to be."

"No, it's fine, just."

"Okay. If you're sure."

Nick was anything but sure.

Joe resettled in his chair and pushed himself even closer to the table. Nick wanted to shrink in on himself, having him that close. He watched Joe as a distraction, his slim, bronze forearms, the way his biceps flexed in his red polo shirt. The color made his tan seem darker. He wore the same uniform day after day, the red polo and khakis. They were always pristine, so either he did laundry constantly or he had a closet full of them. His khakis even had a crease running down the front of the leg, so crisp he must have used an iron.

Joe was adjusting Nick's leg, raising it so he could fit his hand underneath on the hamstring, and since Nick was looking down, he saw it. It wasn't an innocuous bunching of fabric; it was Joe's dick, hard and obvious.

He was _big_. Nick's breath stalled. Something primal grabbed his stomach and squeezed like a fist, a fast zing of recognition that ran a current through his whole body.

"Joe?" he asked unsteadily.

Joe froze completely, caught out. He wheeled his chair away in a sudden, startling push, arms limp on his lap and head bowed down like a shamed dog. "I'm sorry. I've been totally inappropriate, I'll -- I'll recommend you somewhere else, I know a few people who'd be happy to take you on, they're really good."

Nick gaped, suspended in the moment, but he shook himself out of it and half-slid, half-hopped off the massage table, wincing at his carelessness when he came down too hard on his bad leg. "Joe, wait a second, you don't need to do that."

But Joe was wound up like a top and from the looks of things nowhere near done spinning. His chest was heaving slightly, and Nick could see too much color on his cheeks. He chanced a step closer, and Joe bolted from the chair so hard he sent it rolling, putting that much more distance between them. "Please follow up with your treatment. You don't want to compromise your recovery just because I screwed this up."

"This? You didn't do anything." Joe talked like he'd done something terrible, hurt Nick, when in reality he'd probably had a reaction to Nick putting them in a weird headspace to start with.

Joe laughed a little hysterically, his hand coming to cover the side of his face and dragging down too roughly, leaving his skin white for a moment in its wake. "You don't think there's anything wrong with me sexually harassing you?" he said, voice climbing incredulously.

" _What_?"

"Are you for -- I can't believe I'm having this conversation." Joe seemed almost unhinged, mouth open, breath coming fast and harsh. When he spoke again he slowed it down like Nick was having trouble hearing him. "Touching _you_ turned _me_ on. I'm totally out of line. I can go get you the complaint forms, they keep them up at the front desk."

Nick had a moment of _oh_ that spread through his whole body. It wasn't all what Joe said, it was the way Joe was looking at him; frightened, ashamed, angry. Nick recognized all of it and felt a lot less like a freak seeing it all mirrored there. "Touching me turned you on?"

Joe swallowed hard. "Yes. I'm sorry, Nick."

Everything was out of place, tilted sideways, nothing happening the way it should have been. Nick felt peculiar, standing in the middle of the room with his shirt off, his dick still hard, and all of his knowledge of Joe rendered null and void, transformed in the space of a blink. Joe wasn't this slightly goofy, unshakable guy paid to put up with Nick's crap anymore. He was someone who touched Nick and liked it. Nick hadn't even guessed he was gay, or whatever it was, if it was specific to Nick.

People touched Nick before, Nick had been touched before. None of it was like this.

Licking his lips, dizzy with a tide of feeling rising up in his chest, Nick blurted it out before the feeling left him completely. "Touch me some more."

It took a moment for Joe to process that. His eyebrows screwed together in confusion, eyes narrowing. "I beg your pardon?"

"Touch me. You can." Nick was beyond fed up with pain and its interference in his getting what he wanted. He stomped all awareness of it down and walked toward Joe, determined. In that moment he could have run after him if he took off. "Touch me," he repeated, Joe's eyes tracking him until they were nearly toe to toe. "If that's what you want then do it."

There was a second where Nick thought he'd made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. Joe was staring him down, mouth open, his shoulders hitching up and down slightly with every breath he took in. It didn't last long. Joe raised his hand and the brush of his fingers against Nick's shoulder hardly registered. It should have felt more significant than it did, some grand gesture. Still, the sight of it was enough to make him lightheaded and sway where he stood. He closed his eyes to steady himself, and when he opened them Joe was staring at his mouth. Nick swallowed hard.

Joe put his hands on Nick's shoulders, and for a confused second he thought Joe was going to push him away and he was going to fall on his ass, but they slid to his neck and higher, stopping to cup his face.

"This is okay?" Joe asked, and Nick couldn't fathom saying no, but saying yes was harder. He nodded jerkily. "I'm gonna kiss you."

Kissing wasn't what Nick was expecting. Kissing Joe wasn't a thought that he'd had time to formulate, so he had a split second to prepare himself before Joe's open mouth was on his. It felt cool, especially next to the heat of his hands against Nick's face, and the second thing Nick processed was the scritch of his stubble, surprising and alien. Then Nick's mouth was open too, and Joe's tongue was running over his lower lip, barely pressing inside to touch Nick's teeth.

He kissed hard, and Nick couldn't do much more than stand there and let him. The only time Nick got him to slow down was when he flicked the tip of his tongue against Joe's; Joe's mouth dropped open, a muffled noise trapped in his throat. Nick pressed the advantage, leaning in to take control.

Joe didn't stay still for long. It was like a dam came crumbling down, and his hands went from Nick's face to his back, hauling him until Nick's chest was rubbing against Joe's soft polo. He broke away just as Nick was getting used to it, getting into it, and he nosed at Nick's cheek, nipping near his jaw. Nick chased his mouth but Joe didn't give it up, laughing when Nick got impatient and nipped him back.

"You ever kissed a guy before?" Joe breathed against his neck, right on the spot he usually avoided because he knew how ticklish Nick was there. Jerk.

"No."

"Shit."

Nick sucked in a breath as Joe's hand dipped under the waistband of his shorts, then his underwear, palming his ass and grabbing it hard, kneading it until Nick could feel the blunt tips of Joe's fingernails. It felt good, better than what Joe got paid for, and Joe caught Nick's mouth in time to swallow his surprised moan.

Joe kept squeezing his ass like he couldn't stop, and it was so distracting Nick forgot how to kiss him back and breathe at the same time. The girls he dated didn't grab him like Joe did, especially not there. He kept tensing, in case Joe was going to slip his fingers _in_ , but he didn't. Just kept touching him, probably turning his skin red, marking him up. Nick shuddered, tilting his head back so Joe could get at his neck.

There was a tug there, the thin silver chain going tight as Joe pulled on his cross. "I didn't think so."

Nick wasn't sure whether he should feel amused or offended or something else entirely, so he kissed Joe to shut him up. Joe pulled his hand out of his shorts and Nick had a moment to analyze the fact that he _missed it_ before Joe decided to stick it down the _front_. He didn't catch his gasp in time, and Joe was only resting his hand on Nick's pelvis, not even on his dick yet.

"You like that?" Joe asked, still not moving his hand.

"Yes," Nick said, pushing himself against Joe like it was going to make his hand move.

Joe pulled away. "Shit, your leg."

Nick didn't remotely care. "Screw my leg," he said, trying to reel Joe back in.

"My point exactly," Joe said. "Do this standing up and we will." He dodged Nick's attempts to grab him. "Easy." He used his best soothing-physical-therapist voice, which Nick did _not_ need to be hearing right at that moment.

He slipped his arm around Nick's waist and steered him to the couch. Walking without the brace was a bitch, but Nick wasn't going to stop and strap it back on for a whopping ten feet. He didn't need the extra time to think, either. They half-staggered to the couch, Joe's fingers digging into his side as he helped Nick along.

Joe stayed standing when Nick sat, looking impossibly tall above him though he was anything but. Nick grabbed his shirt and pulled, spreading his legs so Joe could fit between them. Joe didn't budge, and Nick pulled harder to get his point across. Joe nearly toppled over.

"Someone's bossy," he said, frowning down at him, but in the next second he was going to his knees at Nick's feet.

It was the latest in a series of new and bizarre images for Nick, having a man between his legs. His heart sped up; it should have been repulsive or scary or some other emotion Nick definitely wasn't feeling. His nerves had him wound up and shaky, but otherwise all looking at Joe did to him was make him want to touch.

Joe's hair threaded through his fingers, short but curling slightly at the ends. Joe made a noise when he tugged, so he did it again, keeping his hand knotted there when Joe leaned in put his mouth on Nick's skin.

He figured out quickly that Nick's nipples were sensitive, licking across one until Nick was squirming and trying very hard not to make ridiculous sounds. When Joe bit down, Nick's hips tilted up off the couch, a whine catching in the back of his throat.

Joe pulled off and sat back, mouth wet, staring at Nick. "I want to suck you off." Nick's hips snapped up hard. "I need you to tell me that's okay."

"Y-yeah."

He hooked his fingers in the band of Nick's shorts and pulled, Nick remembering to lift up and help, trying to put the strain of it on his good leg. He had no time to think. Joe carefully worked his clothes past his knees and then off entirely. He heard the muffled jangle of his keys in his pocket when his shorts hit the floor.

Joe didn't crowd back into Nick's space right away. He stayed back just _looking_ at him. Nick hated being stared at, and the longer it went on, the more uncomfortable he felt. Joe's eyes traveled up and down his body, which was admittedly spread out like Thanksgiving dinner, and all Nick could think about was that he was naked on a couch that people had to sit on later, and how he might compare to anyone else Joe had done this with. Because Joe seemed like he'd done this with other people. Guys.

He wondered how many guys Joe had looked at the same way he was looking at Nick. If it was normal for him. It wasn't normal for Nick; it was as far from normal as you could get.

"You're so smooth," Joe said. Nick's stomach muscles jumped when he brushed his thumb along the crease where Nick's thigh met his hip.

"Yeah, I can't -- _oh_." Joe mouthed at Nick's hip, tracing little licks across it like he was tasting him. "Oh."

It had been a long time, longer than Nick wanted to admit to, and Joe's mouth felt shockingly good, warm and wet, plush when he pressed down kisses. "It's nice," he said, putting his hand on Nick's stomach and resting it there like he was going to hold Nick down.

Nick stared dumbly as Joe licked a long swipe up his cock, pulling back so he could look at how he'd left him wet. He wasn't shy about it; when he leaned in again he was deliberately looking up at Nick, heavy-lidded, his cheeks flushed.

Joe took him into his mouth, a wet suck until he pushed his tongue against the slit. He kept it shallow, leisurely pulls until Nick had to fight sliding down the couch just to get Joe to take him deeper. He was so _slow_ about it, but he was slow about everything, methodical. Nick should have expected he'd be the same way when it came to sex.

Joe's free hand slide up his thigh, pushing to get him to spread his legs wider. Nick did, and Joe settled himself even closer until his knees must have been right up against the couch. He still had one hand pressing above Nick's hip -- not hard, more like a suggestion that Nick stay where he was than an instruction. But Nick couldn't help the way his hips hitched up when Joe took him halfway down, and it must have been more of a shove than Nick thought, because Joe jolted a little like he'd hiccupped, his throat working. He pulled off to breathe and gulped in air, panting a little.

"Oh shit, sorry," Nick said, but Joe shrugged off the apologetic hands Nick put on his shoulders and sank back down on him, taking him just as deep. It made his breathing stutter to a halt for a second, watching Joe's mouth work him over, the way his eyes slitted nearly closed. Impulsively, Nick reached out and slid Joe's glasses off his face, not wanting anything in the way. He put them on the cushion next to him.

It changed his face, even from that strange angle. His eyelashes looked darker, the panes of his face smoother. Nick wanted to tip Joe's head up and look harder, but Joe was so good, taking him deep, and he got _noisy_ , wet suction, the way he had to breathe around Nick, swallowing tight and hard.

"Do you... does it hurt?" Nick asked, the words babbling out of him.

Joe pulled off of him, a long suck until Nick could see all of him was shining spit-wet. His hand went to Nick's cock and curled around it, tugging him, keeping him close to Joe's mouth. "No." His voice was deep, clogged-sounding.

He licked the crown, soft at first, then harder, looking up at Nick to gauge how he liked it. The noise Nick tried to stifle at the double sensation of feeling it and seeing Joe's wet little licks on him was enough of an answer. Nick was so freaking close, could feel it building; the muted moan Joe gave when he slid deeper and caught the inside of his cheek got him even closer.

"I'm gonna," Nick started, but Joe suddenly taking him down his throat stole the rest of it. He hummed around Nick, so good he could feel himself clenching up, and he jumped when Joe slipped his hand up and rubbed at Nick's balls, gentle but insistent pressure.

He didn't let up, sucking hard and letting Nick fuck his mouth, pretty much doing it _for_ Nick, and Nick tried to get him to pull off in time, pushing at his shoulders and stammering out some kind of a warning. Nick's muscles locked, breath coming in pants, and when he started to shoot off he couldn't even form words. Pulse after pulse into Joe's mouth, and Joe just _swallowed_. Swallowed until Nick felt raw, and the keen, sharp pleasure was riding the fine line of hurt.

"Oh my God," Nick said, when Joe was wiping his mouth and raising up from his kneeling position on the floor.

Joe looked unsure for a moment, and Nick pulled him down with an oof, seeking his mouth, not caring when it jarred his knee a little. He wanted to suspend the hazy buzz that always came after, the way he felt weak with it. Nick was slow to kiss back, vaguely registering the tang of Joe's mouth; he was familiar it with it, it didn't bother him, but it was -- different.

An abrasive ring filled up the room, yanking Nick out of the moment, the slick hot of Joe's mouth. They pulled apart, Joe resting his head on Nick's shoulder for a second before he stood up, wobbling for a moment, and walked to his desk. Nick watched him, taking in the line of his shoulders narrowing to his trim waist. And the fact that he was still fully hard.

The couch was sticking to Nick's back and other unfortunate places, but he didn't have the smallest impetus to get up.

Joe pressed a button and the ringing stopped. "This is Joe."

"Your four o'clock has been waiting for fifteen minutes."

"Crap." He rubbed at his forehead, stricken. Nick felt bad for the guy in the waiting room, because he'd _been_ that guy, but it was only compulsory sympathy. He wanted to stay near Joe, and his next appointment sort of put a damper on that. "Tell him I'll be out as soon as I can. If he asks, tell him there was... an emergency."

The receptionist paused. "I'll be sure and tell him."

"Thanks, Caroline." He ended the call and turned around to Nick, face pinched with worry. He'd seen the expression before, or something like it, but it seemed brand new now that the glasses were off. More open. "Fuck. Well, this wasn't the worst possible time we could have done this at all." He came back to the couch and held out a hand to help Nick up.

Nick stretched, still too limp and blissed out to consider moving yet. "Is this why you were late before?" he laughed, not caring how breathless he sounded.

"What?"

"You know, my first appointment when you were late. Were you blowing your client?"

Joe gave him a deadly look. "Yeah, that was exactly it." He stopped scowling and ran a hand through his hair, craning his neck to look around the room as though it would mysteriously give him a solution. "I've got to get you cleaned up."

"Mhm," Nick agreed, reaching up and popping the button on Joe's khakis. Joe must have been too stunned to stop him, because he got the zipper down and a really good look at his black boxer-briefs before Joe so much as said a word.

"Nick! God, we don't have any time," Joe said, but he was a complete hypocrite, leaning into Nick's hands, and he made a choked off _ah_ noise when Nick plucked at the waistband of his briefs.

He thought for a moment that he might chicken out, knowing if he let himself touch Joe it would lead to something he couldn't turn back from. He knew it was laughable, but Joe getting him off felt like something he could let himself have. Touching Joe back would be something he gave.

Joe was looking down at him, open and needy. Nick slid his underwear down low enough to get at his dick.

Joe's eyes fluttered closed. Nick curled his hand around him, flexing his fist to try out what should have been at least passingly familiar, if in reverse, but it wasn't familiar at all. Joe was thicker than Nick, already wetter than Nick got, swollen and blood-hot. When Nick worked his fist up in an experimental glide, he moaned like he couldn't help it.

"Take your shirt off," Nick ordered, wanting to see everything. See if Joe was as tan and toned as he seemed everywhere else.

After a moment's hesitation Joe complied, lifting his shirt up and over his head, tossing it on the couch where it landed to cover his glasses. He didn't look as dark as Nick had expected him to; just an unbroken golden tint all over his skin, flat brown nipples, a trail of hair disappearing to -- where Nick's hand was. He hurriedly stroked him again, a way too hard pull from base to tip, but Joe groaned and swayed on his feet.

"You can take the pants off too, if you want," Nick said, awkward to his own ears.

" _God_." He sucked in a gasp of air and shook his head. "No, I'm not going to last long enough."

"You're not?" Nick asked, and he felt himself start to shake, light-headed with the power he'd suddenly found himself with. He knew how to use his hands to bring a girl off, his mouth, but not even a minute of touching Joe and he was falling apart, precome gathering at the tip, slicking the circle of Nick's hand.

"No, I'm -- oh, tighter," and Nick squeezed, speeding up, working him the way he worked himself when he was about to come. Joe's hand came down in front of his and Nick was baffled for a second, but Joe punched out these desperate _oh oh oh_ s, and he was coming, catching it with his fingers.

Nick was fascinated. There was no other word for it. He kept looking at Joe's face, the way he closed his eyes and the way his mouth dropped open, but Joe's hips shoving into Nick's hand, the milk-white on Joe's, Nick wanted to watch it just as bad. He'd never seen a man come outside of porn, and it was an entirely different experience.

Joe was faster than he was, trying to push Nick's hand off of him with a whine, and when Nick did he staggered back, breathing labored.

"Fuck."

Joe pulled himself back together and went to his desk for some tissues, wiping his hand, nervously looking at the clock on the wall. It was a shock, one mood suddenly shifted to another, and Nick was blinking, trying to process it.

So much for the afterglow. He stood, naked and uncomfortable, cold now. He could see his shorts on the floor.

"You should get dressed," Joe said, and he sounded pained. He grabbed his shirt from the couch and put his glasses back on, the Joe Nick was well-familiar with slipping back into place. Mostly.

"I know. Your... patient is waiting."

"I've got to --" Joe said, yanking his shirt over his head in a hurry, almost knocking his glasses off. "The bathroom, I need to clean up."

"Okay," Nick said, and Joe hesitated for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, before leaning in to kiss him, lightning-fast. "Go," Nick said, nudging at Joe's chest to get him moving. He turned to gather his clothes, but he knew Joe was watching him all the way to the door.

Nick was dressed and mostly composed before Joe came back, but his heart hadn't stopped hammering by the time he reached the parking lot.

\--

A week by himself was a terrifying prospect. Nick spent most of it trying to _do_ things, standing up to load the dishwasher and do the laundry. He went out a few times; Starbucks, lunch at Charlie Palmer for Derek's birthday, the movies with Kevin. It wasn't the same as having an actual life, but Nick wasn't kidding himself; playing gave him the _illusion_ of one, but he didn't, not really. He dated once a month or so, sometimes more if he was lucky to hang on to a girl for a while; he went to his parent's house for all the holidays; he hung out with other guys from the team.

As soon as the brace was off, Nick was getting a freaking hobby. Stamp collecting would be improvement. If he wanted to be social, there was a book club. He could go with Kevin and Dani to their church. He could take up racquetball, go running in the park near his house.

There was his Gibson still sitting in the back of his closet, gathering dust and its strings tarnished, untuned.

Every day he went out and purposefully did something, even if he just made plans, was progress. But it was mostly a waiting game, a distraction while he killed time before he could go back and face whatever it was that had gone down with Joe. He kept trying to think of things to say, but every time he mentally rehearsed a speech until he could spout it like chapter and verse, something would shake him from it, make it sound false and inadequate even in his own head. He'd talk himself into going back and telling Joe that it was no big deal, just something that happened, let's not worry about it or mention it _ever again_ , but that was the worst version, the most awkward.

Tuesday was his appointment. He pulled into the parking lot with that same tight anticipation in his chest he got before a game, and when he climbed out of his Mustang it felt like he was moving in slow-motion. He opened the door, air conditioning hitting him in a cool wave, and he slid his aviators up to the top of his head to greet Rebecca at the front desk.

"Hi, I'm here for the three-thirty with Joe," he said, gratified he didn't _sound_ like the nervous moron he was.

"Yes," she said, and Nick was already ready to back away and go sit in a chair and pretend to read the two week old issue of _Time_ inevitably on one of the tables, but she kept talking. "I'm sorry, but Joe had to leave early for a family emergency." She grimaced a little, apologetic and clearly unhappy with the idea of having to explain this to multiple clients. "I was just about to call you."

"Really," Nick said, mouth parched. "What time did he leave?"

"Around two-thirty," she said, and Nick was so suddenly angry it felt like a flash flood, filling him up so fast he couldn't breathe around it. A tiny part of his brain was banging a gong of rationality; maybe Joe really _had_ an emergency and Nick was overreacting, but the bigger part of him was convinced Joe bailed at the thought of facing him. It was too much of a coincidence. "I'm sorry I didn't catch you in time. Stephanie is here filling in for him. She's happy to see you, if that's not a problem."

"That's fine," Nick said, though it wasn't at all.

He had responsibilities; his therapy came first. Nick didn't shirk his responsibilities, regardless of how he felt about them.

\--

Stephanie was nice. She was sunny but professional, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, wearing blue scrubs, which Nick supposed answered the question of whether or not Joe's uniform was mandatory. It was almost the same as working with Joe, only her commentary was mainly centered around his breathing, what each muscle group felt like in the different stretches. She seemed especially fixated on his hamstrings.

He was lying on the mat staring at the ceiling, her small, steady hands helping rotate his leg, pushing until his knee was tucked close to his body. She kept up a stream of "good, good, one more time," and eventually it washed over him like white noise, his body moving by rote. He knew the exercises.

Near the end he changed into the gown, and Nick watched her hands on his thigh, short nails, petite fingers. She was gentler than Joe ever was, even in that area.

It felt like seeing a doctor, getting poked and prodded and evaluated. It didn't even tickle. There was no rush, no awkward moment of suspense, no worry or what-if. When Stephanie was done she gave him a bright smile that lit up her green eyes, and then it was over.

Nick changed back into his clothes and scheduled his next appointment.

\--

Nick figured Joe usually took his lunch break between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty, so getting into his Mustang and driving there by eleven was almost thoughtlessly easy.

It wasn't until Nick was sitting in the parking lot with his iced latte and the satellite radio on full blast that he realized what a big mistake he was making. He looked like a fool or a stalker, waiting in the parking lot for Joe, and he had no idea what he was going to say. He was likely wasting his time in the first place.

But the good news was that with a bum knee and an identity crisis, he had a lot of time to waste.

At eleven twenty-five his iPhone jangled its cheery ringtone, and Nick jumped in his seat, nerves haywire. It was only his mom, and it wasn't as though Joe would crawl out of his hiding place and call Nick anyway. He turned down the radio.

"Hey, mom."

"Hey, baby."

Nick realized it had been over a week since he'd last spoken to her. They were usually so good at bridging the distance, her and dad back in Wyckoff for his ministry, Frankie in school there. They came down to Dallas frequently, and he was up in Jersey quite a bit too, but Nick felt their absence. He wondered if it was the same for Kevin, but he seemed off in his own little world with Danielle and his career, and Nick never asked. Having Kevin close was a nice tether to family, to home and familiarity, but it wasn't enough.

"How are you? I'm sorry I haven't called." He slid his thumbnail along the seam of his steering wheel, distracted.

"How am _I_? You're ridiculous. How's your knee?"

Nick huffed, shaking his head. "Better. I'm just glad I'm not hobbling around on crutches anymore."

"Are you keeping up with your therapy?"

The irony was not lost on Nick. "Yes. I'm there right now." Where he had no business being. "Hey, mom?"

"Yeah?" Nick could hear someone in the background, his dad or the TV. He could picture her in the living room in her blue chair, or in the kitchen leaning on the counter, with such perfect clarity he had to blink himself out of it. God, he missed her.

"Do I ever make bad choices?"

She was silent for a while, probably taken aback. Nick couldn't blame her. It was such a bizarre thing to ask. "Um. No? Aside from the time you decided to shave the dog," she said, starting to laugh. "And dye him with food coloring."

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" Nick joked, but a claustrophobic dissatisfaction still dogged him.

"Of course I'm not, you did it in the house."

"I was six," Nick protested. "And I mean... after that. Do you think I've made mistakes?"

"What a question," she said slowly. "Everybody makes mistakes. But no, no big ones. You're always so careful. It's one of the reasons we're so proud of you."

Nick didn't feel careful. Nick felt out of control, like somebody else entirely. Her saying that made him flush with pride and the desperate need to correct her, to tell her he was smack in the middle of what could have been one of the biggest mistakes of his life. "Thanks, mom. I've got to go, I'll call you soon."

Nick barely heard her worried goodbye before he disconnected the call.

He spent the next few minutes staring out of the windshield, unseeing. He didn't bother to turn the music back on, knowing he wouldn't hear it.

The front door opened and scared Nick half to death, but it wasn't Joe. But just as his stomach started to unclench, Joe was standing there, smiling at the person who held the door open for him.

Nick sat up rigidly, hand going to his seatbelt and hovering ambivalently above the release. Joe hadn't noticed him yet, but he was unavoidably going to; the Mustang was a conspicuous car. Nick didn't want to be trapped in it when Joe saw him. He got out.

Joe was fishing his keys out of a messenger bag slung across his torso, not seeing as Nick closed the distance between them. His limp was all but gone, adrenalin subduing everything outside of his tunnel vision.

"How's your family?" Nick asked.

Joe dropped his keys.

"I'm guessing it wasn't that big of an emergency, right? Since you're here."

Joe had a three second excuse not to look at Nick while he picked up his keys. When he came up with them, his face was schooled into something unreadable, but he couldn't meet Nick's eyes. "Why -- Didn't you go to your appointment?"

" _I_ did, yeah. So how are they?" Nick asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Joe darted a look around like someone might be watching, but the parking lot was nearly abandoned, people off on their lunch breaks. The nearest business was a tax place a building away, four cars parked directly in front. "They're fine," he said cagily, and it let Nick tentatively consider that Joe might not lie to his face.

"That's good. What was wrong?"

Joe went silent, mouth thinning. He adjusted the strap across his chest. Nick raised an eyebrow, not giving an inch. "Why are you here, Nick?" Joe asked flatly.

"Are we really gonna play it like this? Seriously?" Nick's jaw clenched at Joe's lack of response. "I'm here because you're a _coward_."

That at least got a flicker of something, an annoyed lift of Joe's chin. "You don't get it."

"What don't I get? Why you chickened out?"

It was gratifying to see the angry blush start to spread across Joe's face. "This is ridiculous, Nick. We shouldn't be around each other. What happened was inappropriate and it was some kind of transference, and --"

"Oh, jeeze. Just... shut up."

Joe apparently didn't take direction well. He pulled himself up to his full height, scarcely taller than Nick, and furiously closed the rest of the distance between them. "Who the hell are you?" He didn't give Nick the space of a breath to answer. "This isn't _you_."

"Then who am I?" Nick demanded, narrowly staring Joe down. He was a small player on a field of goliaths; Joe's level of intimidation didn't even register.

"I don't know, _Prez_ , why don't you tell me?"

Nick flinched. His team called him Mr. President, and he smiled in the face of it. He smiled when ESPN called him Prez in their amused, condescending tones. He didn't like it. Hearing it from Joe's mouth was worse than the rest. It made Nick's skin crawl, realizing Joe knew him as that. Thought of him as that. "What's your point?"

"I," Joe said with exaggerated precision, "am a guy. You... dated Miley fucking Cyrus."

"For like five minutes!" Nick was tired of people bringing that up like it was meaningful. He met her at a charity dinner and went on a whopping two dates with her. And yet more people recognized him from those highly unflattering photos Perez Hilton posted of them leaving Bengal Coast together more than they did because of his playing for the Rangers.

''Baseball players who date _Miley Cyrus_ and half the city don't get blown by their _male physical therapist_."

Joe snarling it out like that made uncomfortable heat pool in Nick's stomach. He'd been veering all week between trying to put it out of his mind and guiltily remembering it, letting it get to him. "Don't forget about the handjob," Nick said furiously. Joe was practically puffing up in front of him, a balloon of indignation, but Nick was through getting nowhere. "This is bullshit. You think I'm having some _transference_ issue?"

"I think you're having a fucking identity crisis, Nick." Joe looked overwhelmed, fraying from just having the conversation, and Nick could relate.

"You know what? Maybe I am. But you didn't care about that when you had my dick in your mouth."

"Jesus, Nick," Joe said, face crumpling.

"You're a coward. You didn't even talk to me. You just ran the hell away." Joe blinked and looked down, like his indignant balloon had just been popped. "And you're an idiot," Nick said, watching Joe twitch like he wanted to react but staying silent. "That girl, Stephanie? She could have rubbed herself all over me and I wouldn't have given a fuck."

Joe shook his head, staring at a point over Nick's left shoulder. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked quietly, and Nick could see he was disengaged, that everything Nick said to him Joe would rationalize away as some stupid identity crisis.

" _Moron_ ," Nick said, pulling Joe in hard enough to hurt. He didn't check his impulse; he kissed him, pushing too hard, the angle not a good fit.

But Joe was _done_ under it, opening his mouth almost immediately, molding himself to Nick's front. The messenger bag was trapped between them, near Nick's hip, and he put his hands on Joe's back, restlessly smoothing over the shirt. Joe tasted like peppermint, maybe one from the candy dish at the front desk. Nick wasn't a fan of mint, but it made him want to kiss Joe harder; Joe just moaned when Nick got forceful, and it was like a swift headrush. He didn't want to stop.

By the time Nick's better judgement was heard, reminding him they were in public, Joe had an arm anchored around his waist, his other hand twisted in Nick's hair. Joe was breathing harder than Nick, and the fierce satisfaction Nick felt in that made him want to drag him in all over again.

"Moron," Nick repeated, smiling when he saw Joe start to, a hint of white teeth.

"Did you have to do this while I'm on my lunch break?" Joe said, but he was grinning wide and couldn't stop touching Nick, hadn't pulled away an inch.

"What time do you get off of work?" Nick asked, and Joe's eyebrows rose.

"Six." Joe said it like a question, and Nick could see hopeful expectation take root on Joe's face, the way he was watching Nick.

They were in the middle of a parking lot, Nick reminded himself. Joe was going to kiss the same and smell the same and be the same when not in the middle of a workday, dressed in his annoyingly ubiquitous khakis and polo -- God willing he had something else in his closet. Nick wasn't going to let any of their issues get in the way of acting like adults again.

He leaned down to kiss him one last time, or what should have been one last time, but it was different and new this way, and Nick was learning to like it fast. Joe was so soft, nudging into him every time Nick thought about pulling away, and there was no tension making him shake, nothing to prove. It was nice.

Joe made a small noise of protest when Nick stepped back. He let him go, though, and Nick had to check a huge smile, the open-mouthed kind he went around resolutely denying because he knew how it looked.

"Enjoy your lunch." And when Joe looked at him incredulously, Nick shook his head, backing away so he could go home and not impulsively jump any more guns that day. "You have my number. I'm not -- don't chicken out, huh?"

"Nick?" Joe was so familiar now, after weeks and weeks of seeing him, of thinking about him, but the way he was looking at Nick right then, he'd never seen anything like it. "I won't."

\--

END.


End file.
